


Glimmers of Hope

by mudkipwrites



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Adventures (Comic), Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Comfort Reading, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Star Wars: Rebels References, Star Wars: Rebels Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: Five times that Alexsandr Kallus receives a glimmer of hope, plus one time, the hope comes from himself.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 80
Kudos: 141





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> The new rebel Kallus content from the second chapter, second issue of [Star Wars Adventures: 2020 Annual](https://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Star-Wars-Adventures-2020/Annual-2020?id=178072) sent me into a frenzy!!! This stated out as a narrative, but it’s shifted now to a 5 + 1 series. I hope you enjoy it. Cheers!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus sees a glimmer of compassion.

* * *

**ONE**

* * *

When his eyelids first flutter open, Agent Kallus isn’t certain what wakes him. 

All around him are the familiar sounds of the Imperial Star Destroyer _Chimera_ in motion: the distant humming of ion engines; the thrumming pulse of shield activators; the regular, chirruping sound of the comms, signaling various units for shifts. The ISB Agent groans softly, rolling over in his standard-issue bunk and fumbling around in the dark for his data pad. With a swipe of his finger, he flicks of the security locks of his glowing screen, and checks for any recently-arrived frequencies. Perplexed, still fuzzy from sleep, he blinks at the blank inventory: _no messages._

But that’s when the soft, golden glow of the meteorite on his nightstand draws his attention.

_“You Imperials! So quick to give up on hope.”_

Kallus cringes, drawing his open palm away from the radiant crystal. 

It’s been only a week since he’d returned from the perilous crash-landing on Bahryn, but so much has shifted inside of himself. Along with the loss of his precious bo-rifle, he’d experienced a great loss of faith in the Empire. For, after being abandoned on the ice moon by his backup, he’d only survived with the help of a rebel _Lasat:_ Garazeb Orrelios. Dragging him from the crumpled escape pod, placing this warm meteorite in his hands, Zeb had kept Kallus from dying alone on that planet. He’d fought with him against the attacking Bonzami, and even lent physical warmth from his body to keep off the cold. 

And when his ship had arrived, he’d asked Kallus to join them. 

_“You know...ya could join us. Me an’ mine, with the Rebellion. We’d treat ya fairly.”_

The Imperial shivers. His hand hovers above the stone. 

At the time, he hadn’t been ready. It had taken more than he’d thought he was capable of, just to humble himself and accept the other man’s help in the first place. However, as he’d come to find out, it would take _everything_ from him--his lingering trust in the ISB, his long-held pride in the Empire, his own personal belief that he actually _mattered_ \--when his distress call had gone unanswered. Left in the cold, injured and alone, Kallus had been forced to trade his treasured weapon for safe passage off of the barren world. And, to hammer the final nail into the coffin, his absence on Bahryn had hardly been _noticed_. Even Konstantine had passed right by him that morning of his unexpected return, staying his name without so much as an upward glance. 

_“Seek the answers. You may not like what you’ll find, but you’ll find the truth.”_

Giving into his yearning for warmth, Alexsandr Kallus places his hand on the meteorite. 

Its radiant warmth is a glimmer of hope. 

* * *


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus glimpses a chance at a new life and purpose.

* * *

**TWO**

* * *

Agent Kallus inhales and exhales, feeling the restrictive tightness of his duraplast suit. It’s form-fitted to his chest and sides: flexible enough to move with him in battle, but concrete enough to stay in one piece upon receiving blaster fire.

Which is good, because he’s just been shot. 

“ISB-021,” the crackling sound of a voice says over the comm, “Status report.” 

It’s not uttered anxiously, nor as a question. There is no hint of warmth or compassion in that monotone, professional voice: it merely seeks to know if an agent still exists in the field, or if his role is now in need of replacement. More and more, he is finding himself resenting that fact. 

Kallus coughs, rubbing his side where the bolt made impact. “I’m fine,” he reports. “Code Green. Suspect has been disarmed, and is being taken into custody.” 

There is a crackle of static, and then the response: “Confirmed. Report back to base, ISB-021.”

So that’s it, Then. ‘Confirmed,’ not: ‘thank you for tracking down that group of pirate-rebels.’ ‘Report back to base,’ not: ‘so glad to hear that you’re alive, Alexsandr. We were worried when things got rough back there.”

Kallus sits up, cringing at the pain in his side and adjusting the angular sides of his helmet. _Nothing about me. Nothing about having my back. Nothing about gratitude for my efforts, or mutual celebration of our success._

_If Zeb was here with me, it would be different._

Kallus frowns. He’s been having more and more thoughts about Garazeb Orrelios lately. Focusing on keeping his shaky legs underneath him, he uses the base of his generic, standard-issue electrostaff to help him rise to standing. With slow and laborious steps, he begins his way back towards the transport ship that had brought him here. 

_That was a one-time occasion_ , he tells himself firmly, limping across the craggy ground and shaking the crumbling dust from his uniform _. You and that Lasat are not friends. You are hardly even more than acquaintances. It would be foolish for you to think of yourself as more significant than a survival comrade. The rebellion doesn’t need you. And neither does the Empire._

Kallus grits his teeth, trying to shake off such treasonous thoughts. 

Yes, he’s been having more and more of these lately, too: ones that make him question his loyalty to the Empire, ones that bring him back to the day when he’d arrived from Bahryn after dragging himself back to the Chimera. Ever since Kallus had experienced the kindness of another person who had--at least, for the sake of survival--appeared to care about him, it’s as though his brain has been re-wired to yearn for compassion. And he’s certainly not going to find it, among the likes of the other recruited, battle-hardened ISB or Imperial troopers. 

He’s about to step onto the lowered plank of the _Land_ _Shark_ when, suddenly, his comm chirps again.

It makes the tone of an incoming frequency that he doesn’t know, and the unusual nature of this surprises him. Pausing and frowning, he pulls the device out of the pocket of his armored, black trousers. The comm device blinks, showing an unnamed, encrypted code. It appears to have come from a local device, not using the holo-net hosted by the Empire upon his ship. Strangest of all, it bears only one word in greeting: 

“...By the light of Lothal’s moons...” 

Puzzled, Kallus stares at the comm. He doesn’t know what to make of the phrase, and he knows that this planet is not Lothal. Trying to ponder it out, he chews on his lip.

_Unexpected things have been happening to me lately_ , he thinks, thumb hovering over the ‘REJECT’ button. _I don’t need to add anything extra to manage in my life right now._ However, something about this strange message calls to him, beckoning his curiosity. 

Paused in the doorway of his shuttle, he presses ‘ACCEPT.’ 

* * *

The atmosphere of the bar is seedy and strange. 

It was against Agent Kallus’ better judgement to accept the strange, unknown invitation to join them at the bar. The whole situation itself was dangerous: an encrypted message; an anonymous host; a cryptic instruction to “do the right thing.” In all of his life, Kallus has strived to make the best choices for himself and his Empire...and he isn’t sure that this is the best move for any of them. 

_Are you mad?_ He asks himself, looking around the dim, dingy bar and its many seductive, laughing patrons. _You shouldn’t be in a place like this in the first place._

Kallus needs to be sober, has meetings to get to later today. Kallus has an interrogation with the rebel-pirate that they’d just caught. Kallus is not following his Imperial protocol--first, by leaving his post without permission; second, by placing himself in such a place as this: The _Lazy_ _Lekku_ , known for its shady, under-cover dealings and for its infamous, illegal hookups.

Uncomfortable, he swallows a large mouthful of golden, Correllian ale. 

_Who would actually come to a place like this?_ He wonders, eyeing the sketchy patrons. When one man with ginger-red locks winks at him, he hurriedly turns his gaze back to the bar. _Who openly flouts protocol? Are they rebels?_

And then, unbidden, the image of Garazeb Orrelios floats into mind. Kallus pictures the tall, purple-furred Spectre sitting on the tall chair beside him, four-fingered paw wrapped around a tankard of ale. A smile hovers on his thick lips, and one of his fangs pops out from his lower jaw. 

Kallus shivers, slopping some beer on his chest. 

“Kriff!” he hisses, reaching for a napkin and scrubbing at the damage he’d just inflicted. Fortunately for him, he’d chosen to wear his one pair of civilian clothes, so his Imperial uniform wouldn’t stink of beer. Unfortunately, he’s going to have that image of Zeb leaning towards him across the bar stuck in his head long after he leaves here...and probably every time that he wears this shirt. “Karabast…” 

There is a soft sound of amusement from beside him, and Kallus turns sharply. 

A cloaked, Togrutan woman is sitting there now, her smile glinting at him knowingly. Her skin is coppery-orange, detailed with white markings and symmetrical patterns, and her blue eyes are shining bright. 

“Not many people I know who use that phrase,” she chuckles, voice friendly behind the fold of her cloak. “Did you learn that one on Lasan, Alexsandr? Or was it something that rubbed off on you from our mutual friend?” 

The mingled feelings of offense, bewilderment and terror must be expressed on his face, because she raises one hand soothingly. 

“Please, don’t be afraid. I’m also here as your friend.” 

The woman draws back her hood, and her white-striped montrails are more clearly shown. Kallus narrows his eyes, something in the back of his brain telling him that he recognizes her face. He cannot place it exactly, but he knows that it has something significant to do with the rebellion against the Empire.

“I know that this might seem sudden to you, but I’ve been called through the Force towards you for some time.” 

Kallus blinks, feeling his body stiffen. _Jedi! What she’s just admitted is treasonous!!! Why in the stars would she be here, talking to me, saying this kind of thing-_

“My name is Ahsoka Tano,” she continues in a whisper, “and I’m here as Agent Fulcrum.” 

She leans back, raising her words until they carry. “Let’s get us a room, handsome!” She eyes him in a way that contrasts sharply from her words, but waves towards the Twi’lek bartender for a numbered key. “I think that I’d really like to get to know you better...” 

Against his better judgement, Kallus follows. 

* * *

When Kallus steps into the interrogation room, his head is spinning. 

It’s not from the alcohol that he’d (just barely) consumed. It’s not from the fact that he’s facing a child, someone hardly older than a teenager, rather than the ‘merciless pirate’ that the Empire had prepared him for. It’s about the words that Ahsoka Tano--no, Fulcrum--had told him. It’s about the offer that she’d made for him to join the Rebellion. For him to join Garazeb Orrelios and his crew.

For him to betray the Empire. 

Kallus approaches the teenage Rodian, hearing the door lock sharply behind him. Despite the churning of nausea inside of his gut, he glares down at the green-skinned alien fiercely. Cloaked in poorly-fitted stealth armor, she could be no more in years then Ezra Bridger: a tangle of long, fast-growing limbs and irreverent spitfire. When he reaches down with one hand to tilt her elongated face upward, she hisses a bullet of spit at his eye. 

_Bridger indeed._

“They say you are a Rebel,” he says to the girl, wiping the gob of spittle away. “They say you were caught harvesting weapons from one of our transport ships.” Kallus watches the resolve harden the Rodian’s features, and she transforms from a little girl into a young woman. “A little reckless, wouldn’t you say? Taking things from the Empire that don’t belong to you?”

The emerald-toned alien growls. Kallus doesn’t flinch, only intensifies his frown. 

“Nothing belongs to Your Empire,” she snarls, turning her face away so that it falls free from his hand. “You Imperial dogs come into our land, take what is ours, and then have the ‘nads to claim that I am the thief?” Her galaxy-dark eyes sparkle with malice.

“Colonists. Someday, we’ll kill the lot of you.” 

From behind his helmet, Kallus frowns. 

Why did Ahsoka Tano want so badly for me to release this one? He wonders, watching the seething features of the girl. She doesn’t have a level head, like the Jedi Kanan Jarrus. She doesn’t have endless skills, like Twi’lek pilot Syndulla. Kriff, she hardly even has morals, let alone any honor like Zeb! 

And yet, as he watches the courage and spite of the Rodian girl, he wonders if that is exactly why Tano had wanted her back. 

Unlike the Empire, the Rebellion doesn't just dispose of its more problematic people: it carries them. Walks with them, shapes them, helps them to transform into someone better. Unlike the Empire, the Rebellion invests in people: seeing them for all of their worth, carrying damage and all. Unlike the Empire, the Rebellion tasks agents to go under-cover and to recover them: to bring them back home, after they have been put in danger, captured or abandoned. 

Something happens inside of his chest.

For a strange, intense motion, Kallus thinks of the meteorite hidden inside of his barracks. It warms him, tickles out from the core. It’s a lightness; it feels like _hope_.

“What’s your name?” he asks the alien. 

She stiffens, and he crouches down to be near her face. Still feeling odd, now again feeling that same, heady thrill that had taken over him inside of the bar, he reaches for the binders that encase her thin hands. 

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks again, releasing the locking mechanism with a click. “I want to make sure and ask Tano if you get back safe.” 

The Rodian stares back at him. Her species does not have a jaw like humans, otherwise, he suspects that it would be upon the floor. 

“W-what do you mean?” she asks, voice sounding childlike for the first time. 

With a surge of feeling, Kallus reaches into his pocket and grabs his comm device. He scrolls through his messages, pulling up the first one that he’d received from Ahsoka. When he holds it up for her to read, her eyes grow wide with understanding.

“You’re Fulcrum?” she whispers in awe. 

“Um…” Kallus hesitates. 

He looks down at the device: “... _By_ _the light of Lothal’s moons...”_ He thinks of the musty, sex-smelling room at the bar, and how Tano had clasped his hands in urgent appeal: “ _The_ _Rebellion needs good men, Alexsandr Kallus. Honorable men. Like Garazeb Orrelios. Like what he sees in you. Please, I know that you can help us get her back.”_ He thinks of the way that Zeb had huddled against him for warmth; had looked after him longingly, ears blowing in the freezing cold wind. “ _You could come back with me...with us. We’d treat ya fairly.”_

Gulping, he firms his resolve. 

“Um, yes. Yes, I am Agent Fulcrum.” 

His heart thunders inside of his chest, head spins with elated disbelief, as the Rodian beams at him in admiration. With a sigh of relief, she throws her arms around his neck--and, for the first time since he can remember, Kallus finds himself embraced in a hug. Uncertain, feeling tears burning at the corners of his eyes, he pats the girl’s back awkwardly. 

“I knew that I could trust the Rebellion,” she breaths, drawing back. “Thank you, Fulcrum. So, what’s your escape plan?” 

Agent Kallus--no _, Agent Fulcrum_ \--sucks in a new, fresh breath. 

His side still aches from where the other Rebel pirates had shot him; his heart still burns with the warmth of Ahsoka’s trust, of Garazeb’s lingering presence, of the embrace that had just shown him how much he truly does matter. With a growing smile and a developing plan, he nods back at the Rodian girl.

“Alright. So there’s these ventilation ducts running from the hallway pass to the escape pod hangar…”

As they begin to formulate a plan, that feeing of hope returns once again. _Maybe...just maybe...with the support of those like Tano and Zeb, and as a Fulcrum of the Rebellion...I too can become someone better.  
_

* * *

  
  
  



	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus catches sight of new freedom.

* * *

**THREE**

* * *

“Don’t shoot! _”_ Agent Kallus insists. 

Sabine Wren, the _Ghost_ crew’s Spectre Five and their weapons-explosives mechanic, sneers back at him from across the barrel of her weapon. Eyes narrowed, she levels the blaster so that it is trained on his helmeted head. “Give me a good reason _not_ to,” she replies with suspicion. 

Kallus slowly raises his hands. 

Unlike their prior encounters, he does not see the young Mandalorian woman’s colorful hair. Instead, he notices that she’s dyed it a deep brown; likely, all the better to match her Skystrike Academy uniform, and to encourage the illusion of her disguise. Behind her stands a pair of young pilots; both of them anxious and green-horned, and yet, both of them ready to defect from the Empire into the Rebel Alliance. 

_Good,_ Kallus thinks. _That’s two more for the cause. Stars know that we’re in sore need of pilots._

“Avoid levels three through five,” Kallus answers, making certain to keep his voice level. “Hangar twenty-four is your best possibility.” With Wren’s eyes watching him, he raises a hand and pushes a button. The blaster doors on the wall shift smoothly open, revealing an escape route down the long, illuminated hallway behind him. 

As the two, younger pilots hurry past him, Wren keeps her blaster trained on his face.

_“Wait,”_ she says sharply, holding them up. Her eyes flick up and down Kallus’ form, and her slim, dark eyebrows draw together in frustrated concern. Kallus notices that her fingertip still rests on the trigger, and that she hasn’t moved out of her poised fighting stance. “How do we know we can trust you?” 

_A natural question,_ Kallus thinks, watching her calmly. _And a very good one._

He has not yet been serving as _Fulcrum_ for that long. In fact, his conversation earlier this morning with the unknowing Spectres was one of the first handful that he’s ever made. It’s tricky, getting all of the encrypted comm-signals to work out correctly; but he’s beginning to get the hang of it now, and he’s finding himself rather good at all this under-cover spying and informing. 

What’s more, he is beginning to feel as though he can actually _do_ something about the sinister presence of Imperial champions like Aridnah Pryce and Grand Admiral Thrawn. It turns out that the former Jedi Ahsoka Tano had been right after all: the freedom of truth feels truly _extraordinary._ To Kallus, it feels as though bathing and being refreshed again, after months of bearing the grime of the desert. To Kallus, it feels as though he’s walking upon his legs for the very first time: shaking, knock-kneed, but feeling the tickle of grace and the richness of soil between his toes. 

_But Sabine Wren doesn’t know that,_ he reminds himself. _She only knows you as the ISB agent._

It feels like minutes, but it is only seconds as he considers her. Kallus takes in the fierce set of her jaw; the confident posture of her stance; the way that she is ready to fight--for Mandalore or the Rebellion--and he wonders if Zeb feels some pride in his little sister. 

“Tell Garazeb Orrelios that _we’re even,”_ Kallus hears himself reply. 

The expression startles himself as much as it startles young Wren. The words hadn’t occurred to him to say beforehand, and they betray the direction of his present thoughts. _(Indeed, Kallus does everything possible to keep his lingering daydreams of the Lasat out of his head and his mouth during his work hours, for could only lead to trouble if he slipped up and spoke on his growing interest in the alien rebel.)_

He watches the young woman raise her eyebrows in confusion...then, she gives him a cold nod of acceptance, and lowers her weapon. 

“ _Go,”_ he directs, pointing down the now-opened hallway. 

The trio rushes past him, with not one of them turning to look back at their strange, unexpected savior. Kallus taps the control panel over the blast doors once more, hearing them sigh closed with a snap behind him. He turns and departs, walking into the long shadows of the hallway. It’s only a matter of moments before he hears the echo of shouts and blasters on the other side of the closed doors, and the whirring assistance of a droid as the first series of closures re-opens. 

“Where have they gone?” calls the nasal voice of a Storm Trooper. “We can’t let them get away! Not while we have such high-ranking visitors here on inspection!” 

Their boots clatter upon the polished floor, and their breaths heave loudly from behind filtered helmets. Kallus counts no less than four troopers as they rush past, yet he remains unnoticed in the place where he’s sunken into darkness and shadow. He heaves a sigh, straightening up and brushing a fallen hair back into place. 

_Perhaps they will make it!_ He thinks, drawing out his comm-device. _If Wren has been able to get them this far, then it might still be possible that they make it back to the hangar._

The sound of alarm-sirens blare, and Kallus taps through his new messages as. He finds one that instructs him to go to the main hold, and he turns on his heel, rushing towards the location in a brisk stride. From the device chirping loudly in his hand, he can hear the broken chatter of Imperial failure: _“--headed towards twenty-four!--”_ and “ _kriff, that’ll be a code orange--”_ and “ _\--escaped into the atmosphere! Instructions?”_

The clamor of it all brings a smile to his lips. 

_Did you know?_ He wonders, thinking of Zeb as he steps into the chaotic hold. _When you really, truly looked at me--when you saw me there, stranded upon that ice moon--that I was capable of this kind of destruction?”_ He winces, mind flickering horribly back to Lasan. _Yes,_ _of course, you know that I could kill. But did you really know that I could also help to dismantle the Empire?_ He watches Governor Pryce smash something upon the ground in fury, scattering spikes of broken ceramics spiraling through the surrounding air. _Or was it not about me at all? Were you just throwing it out there, taking a chance?_

“Agent Kallus!” Pryce snarls, gesturing him over. 

He heeds the call, treading carefully and hearing the crunch of her Caf cup shifting beneath his durasteel boots. _You can call me your agent,_ he thinks, setting his face into a hard mask _but I do not belong to you anymore. Not to you, nor to your Grand Admiral. Not even to your cruel, corrupt Empire, nor to the power of the Emperor himself._ And--Kallus realizes this brilliant and powerful glimpse of his freedom--a feeling of hope _soars_ within his chest. 

“The rebels have escaped! How, _how_ could this happen?!” 

“A terrible oversight,” Kallus agrees, cool and calm in the face of her anger. 

Feeling the eyes of Thrawn pressing down on his back, Kallus gazes into the burn-orange, fog-heavy sky around Skystrike. And even as he watches several Tie-Fighters depart from their bank, slicing sharp and dangerous through the air, he knows that they are hopelessly far behind Wren and her fellow rebels. They are certain to catch nothing but sky-trails.

"We shall endeavor to do our best next time."

* * *


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus is surprised by the warmth of affection.

* * *

**FOUR**

* * *

Sprawled on his belly, hands under his chin, Kallus lies on his bunk and watches the encrypted holo. 

The room all around him is cold, but the persistent blush to his cheeks--and the glow of the Bahryn meteorite--are enough to keep him feeling pleasantly warm. It’s _always_ like that, these days, when he has conversations with Garazeb Orrelios. It’s as though, for a moment, that he is stepping out of his frigid, Imperial home, and is being transported into somewhere _(and to someone_ ) completely else. 

It’s enough to make his sock-covered toes curl in pleasure. 

“You ought to be more careful,” he scolds the man on the other end of the line. “ _Really._ If your whole crew would have found out the finer details of you battling with that Imperial-made droid, I’m certain that General Syndulla wouldn’t have left you off. She’d be keeping you under close watch, and for at least a whole month’s rotation!” 

The image spiralling before him on the holo has now become something familiar. With its brilliant, white color and sharp, pointed edges, the Fulcrum symbol is dangerous enough to be threatening and dangerous. And yet--with its smooth, rounded sides pulling inward, its narrow corners weaving and bending together--it also shows a picture of unity. 

_Community. Safety. Support. All of them values that the rebellion believes in._

From the other side of the blinking holo, Kallus hears a low and rumbling laugh. “Aw, Karabast, Kal!” it says, warm and friendly. “Are you gettin’ all _worried_ ‘bout little ol’ me? I can take care of myself, ya know.”

Alexsandr Kallus floods with a blush. 

Even though he knows that the Lasat cannot see him, he still hides his burning face behind his hands. _Stars!_ He thinks, chewing on one of his lower lips with anxious, yet cheerful, dread. _We’re getting way too close to the mark. One of these days, I’m going to say something that I truly regret, and he’s going to cancel these little meetings all together. Rebels don’t fall in love with Imperial men._

_And Lasats don’t fall in love with their captors._

“No need fer you to think like that,” Zeb says, his voice gentle and reassuring. “I’m safer here than anywhere else in the galaxy, because I’m with my family and friends.” The Fulcrum symbol flares brightly, twitching in and out of its signal, and Kallus imagines that it is the slow, sleepy blink of the Lasat’s eyes. “They’re always gonna have my back. Just like I’ve got _yours_ , and you’ve got _mine_.” 

He swallows, feeling his pulse thunder to life inside of his chest. 

_Is this what I think it is?_ He wonders, listening to the steady, reliable breathing of the man who has slowly become his best friend. _Are we moving into something...different?_

For so long, longer even than he’s been serving now as Fulcrum, Kallus has been dreaming of sharing a romance with Zeb. Some nights--when he huddles for warmth against the glowing meteorite--he finds himself thinking of that time when they’d been stranded upon the ice moon together. Of the way that Zeb’s emerald, warm eyes had hovered and gazed on him with compassion...about how his warm, fuzzy, purple-striped arms had clutched him tightly, and had not let him go... 

Kallus’ head is spinning. He _must_ be imagining things. 

And, if he is not careful, he will lose himself into the deep, longing thoughts and feelings for the Lasat that so readily wait to consume him. He will get caught up in hoping for more of those soft, intimate conversions, where every piece of his whole world is challenged. He will get pulled in the softens of the dream of their fighting together, working side by side to protect the vulnerable. To the dream that they could forge something new together; the idea that they could be more than friends. 

There is a long, fizzing pause between them, and Kallus finds himself holding his breath. 

“Kal? Ya still there?”

“Uh, yes! I’m here!” he says, hurriedly pushing himself back into the present moment. He rushes for heart-felt words, stumbling over them in his eagerness. “My apologies, Garazeb. Yes, of course: you can count on me, always. I have your back, just as you have mine. I’m your Agent Fulcrum; and you are my rebellion.” 

The silence hangs one moment too long. Zeb chuckles, and Kallus gasps in realization. 

“Uum! N-not _your_ Agent Fulcrum!” he explodes, waving his hands fruitlessly in the air. “I mean! Uh! Not like, _yours_ yours, Zeb! _Shit! Karabast!_ ” He feels sweat sliding down his face, gathering on his lip. He finds himself panting, as though winded from a long run. “I meant, uh, what I’m _trying_ to say to you right now is...is that…”

He would have gone on. He really _would_ have. But Kallus finds himself distracted. 

Zeb’s chuckle on the other end of the audio holo is not hurtful or mocking. It’s a soft, pleasant sound, rich and lovely and low. Astonishingly, it makes him feel even warmer than ever before; because, not only does it bring the rose of heat back into his cheeks, but it also settles with a comforting warmth down into his _bones._

He blinks, hardly daring to believe in this wonderful, new revelation. 

“I’d be _honored_ ,” Zeb replies, low and charming. “An’ I’ve got to hand it to ya, Kal: not many people in this galaxy are that courageous an’ bold. You’re a pretty confident man, goin’ all the way from former enemies to star-crossed _lovers_.” 

Kallus nearly falls on his face. 

“L- _lovers?!”_ he whispers hoarsely, leaning close to the audio input. His pulse thunders inside of his ears. His face is surly flushed a deep scarlet. He is frowning; and he’s never been more happy in his entire _life_. “ _Garazeb Orrelios,"_ he scolds, attempting to sound like Captain Hera Syndulla in all of her powerful presence. "I never said _anything_ to about--” 

Zeb laughs again.

And the sound of it makes Kallus break into a nervous, delighted smile. He can almost picture the Lasat’s great, green eyes dancing with humor and affection; he nearly _feel_ the way that, standing close, Zeb would lean in and rub the bristles of his bearded face against him. The thought of it sends his pulse skyrocketing. The thought of it makes him want to stand up and spin. 

_Somehow, this whole thing is actually going to work itself out. And for once, even better than I’d been prepared to imagine._

"Just wait until I get to see ya again," Zeb chuckles from the other side of the line. "I'll make it worth your while. In fact, why don't we make it a bet? If I can give ya a kiss that'll sweep you off yer feet, and that ya still don't end up swoonin'..." Kallus feels his eyes go wide, feels his mouth split open with grinning pleasure, feels his heart begin to leap inside of his chest, "then, we'll just go backwards and just stop us at friends. Yeah?" 

Licking his lips, Kallus hugs the pillow against his chest. He feels _giddy_. 

"That's a deal, Spectre Four. This is Agent Fulcrum, signing out." 

* * *


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus receives affirmation of his value to the rebellion (and to Zeb).

* * *

**FIVE**

* * *

When the buckled, bent doors of the escape pod are wrenched open before him - when the brilliant light of the  _ Ghost _ spilling into the heavy darkness surrounding him, and the shapes of now-familiar crew members thrown into detailed relief before his eyes - it is not unlike being born once again. 

_ “Karabast!  _ Kal, you’re  _ hurt!” _ A pair of clawed hands reach out, searching and grasping for him.

Alexsandr Kallus feels his cheeks warm. 

The gravely, baritone voice behind the expression sounds like the smoothest and sweetest sound to his ear, now that it is unobstructed by the distance nor fragile connection of previous Fulcrum transmissions. Dazedly, still feeling light-headed from all of his blood loss, he leans into the touch of the rebel who has been his lifeline connection. He feels himself being lifted from the wreckage, pulled against and held to the other man’s chest. 

“Zeb?” he asks blurrily. “Did they all escape? Have we landed on Atollon?” 

His racing heartbeat stammers to a halt when he gazes up and sees the other man’s grave expression. 

In all of his time serving as Agent Fulcrum, Kallus has never seen the Lasat look quite so defeated. Zeb’ tall, feline ears droop low upon his head, and his green eyes lack any kind of playful spark or luster. As he gazes down at him, slowly shaking his head, Kallus does not need to ask if Grand Admiral Thrawn and the Empire’s fleet had accomplished their lethal task of bombardment. 

“...Zeb…”

Overcome with emotion, Kallus buries his face in his friend’s shaking chest. 

“Don’...don’t beat yerself up over it now,” Zeb replies. The Lasat’s voice thrums through the point of connection between them, and Kallus feels a moment of confusion when the growl shifts into a grim chuckle. “...Anyway, Ashla knows that the blue bastard already took care of that job for ya.” 

Kallus blinks, uncertain. 

Then, he understands with _burning_ clarity as Zeb lifts a hand - the one not suspending him cradled against his broad chest, holding him with a tenderness and care that he did not expect and does not deserve - and brushes a clawed thumb over his’ smarting, bruised cheekbone. 

Sweeps the fallen hair from his eyes. 

“We’ll get ya patched up here in no time,” Zeb says softly. “Just try not to make too much of a commotion. The others here on the  _ Ghost  _ know that you’ve been serving as Agent Fulcrum, but the rest of the rebellion don’t. I imagine it’s gonna take a little bit of time to convince ‘em that yer truly on our side.” He winces apologetically. 

Kallus finds that he doesn’t mind. In fact, he can hardly feel the extent of his various injuries, while held in the warm embrace from Zeb. 

_ I’ve been dreaming of this for so long,  _ Kallus thinks, eyelids growing fuzzy. _ How long have I been hoping to come home to the Rebellion? Was it really since the ice moon? Since Zeb placed that meteorite in my hands?  _ He feels the world shifting around him and knows that the other man must be carrying him towards the med-bay. Just as he’d once carried him through Bahryn, climbed with him up to safety along the ice pillars. “ _ The goal is not to fall,”  _ he’d once quipped at the other.

If only he’d known to what extent he’d been  _ wrong _ . 

“Stay with us, Kal,” Zeb’s voice murmurs softly. “Keep takin’ those big inhales and exhales. Don’ stop breathin’. You’ve made it this far. We don’t wanna lose ya.” 

Something true, honest and hopeful in that statement warms him all the way to his heart. Kallus smiles, unable to see the details of his larger friend clearly through his blurry, tired eyes. He contents himself with being settled into a medical cot alongside the other man, sighing and sinking his hands into warm fur. Perhaps, for once, he will not dream of the tragedy and slaughter of Ondoron ( _ or now, Atollon. Or anywhere else).  _ Perhaps, now that he is gathered against the warm side of Garazeb Orrelios once more, just like Bahryn, he will finally be protected and fine. More than fine. Maybe even  _ well.  _

_ “Stay with me, Kal, _ ” the warm, familiar voice whispers.  _ “You’re gonna be okay. Everythin’ is. It’s just gonna take us some time.”  _

Trusting in the hope of that rebellion promise, Kallus allows himself to sink into sleep. 

* * *

It’s not just the sweat of the tropical planet.

It’s the way that others are looking at him: as though he might betray their families any second. It’s the way that he’s unsure that this is all going to work out: that his desertion of the Empire wasn’t a terrible idea, and that it hasn’t put all of these people into more danger. It’s the controlled, painful effort of limping his way across base: now reliant upon crutches in a way that he’s never been so dependent before, and wholly new to his injured, tired body. 

And, of course, it’s Zeb. 

The way that his hand rests upon his lower back, supporting him when he’s tired of standing. The way that he’s always watching him, always just seconds away from leaping to his assistance. The way that he follows him protectively around base, watching his interactions with hostile rebels, like a silent and ominous lilac-dust shadow. 

If former-agent Kallus wasn’t already trained in  _ observance _ , he would have found it unnerving. 

_ “Zeb,” _ he huffs, shucking off the layer of his puffy, earth-toned jacket. “You know,  _ really _ don’t have to do this.” 

He’d been making his way across base to one of the temples when he’d staggered from tiredness in his efforts. For a terrible moment, he’d thought that he was going to eat a face-full of dirt _ ;  _ however, he’d felt the familiar weight of a gloved, purple hand grasping him from behind and pulling him rightward before he’d been able to topple over. It appears that Zeb had, once again, been watching over him, catching him just before an imminent fall.

Sweating and panting, Kallus leans against the temple stairs. 

Garazeb Orrelios laughs. 

“What? An’ just let ya keep splittin’ open those lush lips of yers?” Upon seeing Kallus’ answering blush, the Lasat laughs again. He throws back his head, long fangs glinting in the hot sunlight of Yavin IV, the picture of handsome contentment. “Nah, I’ve got my instructions. I gotta keep watch over and take care of the pretty boys. After all, we need good recruitment posters for the rebellion!”

Kallus has no good answer for  _ that.  _ He buries his burning face in his hands. 

“So that’s why you’ve been following me? Because we’ve got to keep up appearances?” 

Zeb makes a feline sound of concern. He feels shade thrown upon his shoulder as the alien man scoots closer, and then he is engulfed in the familiar warmth and smell of the other man’s fur as he loops a heavy arm over his shoulder. Zeb pulls Kallus closer, nuzzling against the top of his head with his bristling, bearded jaw in an open show of Lasat affection. 

“Kal, ya don’t really mean that?” he asks, that baritone voice rumbling between them. “Surly, you understand by now how important you are to the rebellion?  _ To me?”  _

Kallus doesn’t dare to answer either question. 

_Yes,_ he has been somewhat useful these days to the rebellion. After serving as an inside man he has useful information about ISB secrets and codes, and he can give all kinds of intel and insight about the workings of high-ranking imperials to Information. But that doesn’t mean that he  _ matters.  _ That doesn’t mean that the Rebel Alliance won’t throw him out at the first chance they get. Given his history of participation in murder, kidnapping, and genocide. 

He knows that  _ he  _ would. 

But,  _ no,  _ Kalus has not allowed himself to consider the other question. 

He has not allowed himself to think too deeply, nor too fondly, of the extent of what he means to his friend Zeb. Because, regardless of his transparent and ever-growing affections for the other man, he should  _ not  _ expect his feelings to be reciprocated.  _ Never.  _ For although the Lasat had been loyal to him about his Fulcrum transmissions, had even said things that were sweet, endearing and kind to him then, Kallus cannot expect Zeb to forget about Lasan. There is too much blood on his hands,  _ in his life,  _ for someone like Garazeb Orrelios to ever love him back.

Perhaps Zeb is aware of what is going on inside of his head, because he is frowning. 

“Alexsandr Kallus,” he says. “ _ Look  _ at me.” 

Kallus does: and he finds himself gazing up into the open warmth of the other man’s eyes. Zeb’s ears are tilted forward in interest, and his arm is still wrapped around him. His other hand, which had formerly been resting upon his muscular thigh, now raises and rests under his chin. He tilts Kallus’ head upward, angling their faces until they are only the shortest distance apart. And, in spite of his sweaty shirt and trembling hands, Kallus allows it all to happen. 

Even if he doesn’t think that he should matter,  _ Zeb  _ does.

And he trusts Zeb. With his  _ life _ . 

“In some ways, you’re a real piece of bantha shit,” Zeb begins, mouth crooked in a smile. “Signin’ up for the bloody Empire? Falling for their xenophobic brainwashin’? Participatin’ in all kinds of civilian violence? Honestly, for a major part of yer life, you were a tool: and you hurt a lot of people. Including those who mattered to me the most.” 

Kallus already knows it, but it doesn’t make the impact of Zeb’s words any better. 

He cringes, wanting nothing more to disappear into the cracks of the temple walls. 

“But in other ways, you’re the best man that I know,” he continues. “You’re brave, and you’re clever. You’re smart, and you’re loyal. When you make a decision, you go all the way: even if that means deserting the Empire. Karabast, even if that means putting yourself in harm’s way, committing treason, and hauling your ass to a whole new, hostile planet!”

Kallus stares at him, feeling stunned and overwhelmed. 

The hand on his back rubs in soft circles.

“Kal, people change. They are more than the worst thing they’ve done. You are a man who has done some terrible stuff, but yer  _ also  _ the man who has the heart of a rebel. You’re passionate, thoughtful, and just exactly the right kind of headstrong. You had a chance at a new life, and ya took it. You saw a glimmer of hope, and it changed ya. Honestly, there’s nobody else that I wanna spend time with, an’ that I respect more.” 

Zeb leans closer, his breath fanning over Kallus’ lips. 

“Plus...you  _ are  _ a  pretty boy.” 

When their lips connect, Kallus hears himself shudder. For the second time since joining the rebels, he feels the revelation of starting all over: the  _ newness  _ of being treasured and valued; the  _ rightness  _ of feeling Zeb’s mouth against his. Sighing and leaning into the taste and the touch, Kallus kisses the man who had once been his enemy and is now his closest friend. He feels both arms encircle around him, and he allows himself to be gathered into the Lasat’s lap. 

_ Now, even more than that.  _

_ Partner.  _

When his eyes flutter open, Zeb is grinning at him. His blue-purple lips are shining and parted, and one fang sticks out from beneath one of them. The green of his eyes glitters from beneath half-hooded lids, and he seems to be rumbling from beneath his strong chest again.  _ Purring.  _ Kallus absorbs every moment of it, allowing the truth of their shared love to be known.

“T-thank you,” he replies, breathless and adoring. 

Zeb beams at him. 

“I shall do my very best to be worthy of such an endorsement. I cannot tell you how long I’ve wanted to share something like that between us...and how much I needed to hear the words that you just said. And in time - with your help, and a little practice - I think that I might actually come to believe them.” He cups Zeb’s jaw, tangling his fingers in his purple sideburns. 

_ “Good,”  _ his partner says. “Fer now, maybe I can make a recommendation?”

“Certainly. Anything, Garazeb.” 

“You’re... _ very  _ sweaty. We both need a _shower_.” 

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll, I'm a creature of habit. It's *slaying* me not to write spicy fic. Please know that, in my heart, they go boink after this in the 'fresher. ((Maybe a separate follow-up fic is in order?)) lol


	6. PLUS ONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plus, a time when Kallus provides more than one kind of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters in this final part of the story are from Star Wars: Adventures (Annual, 2020, Issue #2). Coleema, Dee-Four, and the Glimmer of Hope all come from that comic appearance and are not my original characters. But I hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

* * *

**PLUS ONE**

* * *

“Captain,” an electronic voice calls behind him, “Are you quite certain this is the place?” 

Kallus throws a look over his shoulder at the tall, silver droid shuffling awkwardly behind him. Like many protocol droids, Dee-Four finds themselves uncomfortable in settings where their rules of decorum do not apply. Knowing that the amount of information that they are absorbing is well worth the trip, he cannot help but give them an amused grin. 

“Yes, Dee,” he replies, pulling up a tall chair at the bar. “Our information is solid. The contact should be here somewhere...just look for a head of bright-colored hair.” 

On most of the rocks that they’ve been frequenting during their Fulcrum missions, such a thing would not be difficult. Thick with smugglers, thieves and defectors, the bars that they’ve located in the asteroid belt are often filled with people clothed in the most unassuming, earth-tone garb. It was an attempt to blend in, to not be discovered; after all, even with the progress that they’ve made in the rebellion, it still isn’t the safest of times to be an alien amidst the Empire. 

This bar, however, is a riot of color. 

The outpost at Z-LOQ asteroid is crowded with a multitude of drinking, cheerfully-talking people. Under the hazy, green light of the atmospheric lanterns, aliens of various races chatter in thick dialects. Nearby, a trio of battle-worn, red-hided Gran soldiers visit loudly and clink milky cupfuls of drink. Further on, a brilliant-yellow Rodian smokes something silvery out of a pipe, sending tendrils of lazy, glittering steam curling upwards and hovering on the ceiling. On the holo, news of the Empire streams with wide, warning labels; however, the transmission is pleasantly muted, so Kallus can hear the clamor of voices and laughter instead. 

And when his eyes fall upon a seated, purple-cloaked figure, he knows that their night is about to get even more vibrant. 

“Follow me,” he instructs Dee-Four. “I think that we found our contact.” 

Kallus winds his way through the crowd, brushing past a rowdy and thick-maned group of Cathars. He arrives at the place where a cloaked woman is seated at a round table, gazing into what appears to be a glowing, hovering crystal ball. She is leaning forward so that her face falls into shadow, but nevertheless, he can see that she is a riot of blue: icy skin, electric eyes, teal waterfall of hair. For a moment, he feels a thrill of familiar fear at her color palace: but then, _no._ Her eyes are normal. _Not_ glowing with the malice of violent intent. 

_“By the warmth of Bahryn’s stone,”_ Kallus whispers, leaning down to keep his voice low. 

Upon hearing the updated code-phrase, the woman draws back her hood. 

“Ah, Fulcrum!” Lony Coleema greets, smiling in a way that makes the jeweled dimples of her cheeks pinch. “Please sit! And you, too, friend,” she adds, addressing Dee-Four. 

_Very good,_ Kallus thinks, warms towards the kindness she’d already towards a ‘non-sentient’ being. _She has compassion. That is a good start._ Inclining his head, he takes his own place across the table from the blue woman. She is not at all like the coldness of the Chiss man he remembers: perhaps she is a Pantorin, if not from a family of mixed human-and-alien origin. 

Privately, Kallus smiles. He thinks of the infant daughter he now shares with Zeb. 

“I am Dee-Four, Mistress Coleema,” his crew member reports. The protocol droid seems to like their contact too, and they sit down closer to her than they sit to Kallus. “We are most happy to greet you. It was uncertain that we would be able to pinpoint your location.” 

Coleema chuckles, making the lighting-bolt shapes tattooed on her crown seem to vibrate with positive tension. 

“ _Sister,_ she emphasizes, “Not mistress.” Turning to look at Kallus, she tosses the mop of hair over her shoulder. “If you are indeed Fulcrum, than I have some information to share wtih the Rebel Alliance. The Empire has developed new long-range detection technology, as well as improved attack capabilities.” She drums her black-painted fingertips on the table, striking Kallus as someone far younger than his typical spies. “With your permission, I will share the information directly to Dee-Four’s information receiving systems.” She nods at them. “Are you ready?” 

“Oh!” Dee chirps delightedly, clapping their hands together. “Yes, how wonderful!” 

Kallus sits back, impressed. He watches with curiosity as the woman projects a series of brilliant-pink shapes and numbers before them, illuminating the receptors inside the protocol droid’s eyes. _Some kind of cyborg?_ He wonders, watching her silently relay the information to Dee-Four without so much as verbal expression. _Whatever her capabilities, she is exceptional. We would do well to have someone like her working for us as an ally within the rebellion._

“I am receiving the data, Sister, Coleema. It is like a soothing voice in my head.” 

After some time, Coleema’s bright, dancing symbols gradually fade.

“Quite _magnificent_ !” Dee-Four chirrups in praise. “You, Sister Coleema, are a most gifted and extraordinary young woman! Tell me, if you may: where did you learn how to do such things with your circuits? I _must_ know the data and coordinates of your slicer.” They throw a quick, worried look over their shoulder at Kallus. “Err. Not that I have been ever treated with insufficient care by my _repairer_...” 

Kallus snorts, shaking his head and smirking. 

After Dodonna had been informed of his capabilities with cyber-mechanics, he’d been assigned to work on the salvaged droid. Dee-Four had been left for several seasons as a fruitless attempt, and after so many years of improper care and technique, they had grown quite rusted. However, with some careful re-wiring and creative coding, Kallus had actually been able to re-start the being again. And since then, they have never left his side: first assigned as his personal assistant, then later as his mission pilot, navigator and scribe. 

_Most_ of the time, he doesn’t regret it. 

“Easy, Dee,” he says, feigning irritation. “I agree with you, though: that’s _very_ clever.” But when he notices that she is ignoring both of their words and beginning to rise for departure, he follows suit. “Thank you, Sister Coleema. The Rebel Alliance is in your debt. Here: please take this subspace transponder. With this, we can find you anywhere, should you need us.” 

She appears surprised, yet grateful as Kallus hands her the communication device. 

“Thank you,” she replies, sliding it into a pocket beneath the folds of her violet cloak. “Now that the deed is done, I believe we must depart.” She ducks her head, pulling the hood over her curtain of teal hair once more. With a flash of fabric, she turns and is gone. 

_“Curious,”_ he murmurs, thumbing a hand through his beard. 

_I’ve seen many beings in the galaxy, but none quite like her. Not only are her skills highly useful, but she appears to be a highly capable agent. If someone like Lony Coleema falls under the attention scan of the Empire…_

Kallus does not want to think of what they would do to someone as unique as her. 

“Curious indeed!” Dee-Four echoes, coming to stand beside him. “But I liked Sister Coleema very much. Now that we have our information, shall we depart as well?” the protocol droid looks around, doing a fair imitation of a human shiver. “This location is pleasant, but I much prefer the atmosphere of the _Glimmer_ better. And, besides: Captain Orrelios will be eagerly waiting for your report back to Echo Base.” 

Kallus grimaces, suppressing a little shiver of his own. 

“Yeah, let’s go back to the ship. Once we get there, just make sure to turn the heat on full-blast.” 

* * *

Alexsandr Kallus - former ISB Agent, former servant of the Empire _-_ now serves the rebellion on his very own ship: 

_The_ _Glimmer_ _of Hope._

It’s an old, second-class Corellian fighter, assigned to him while back on Massassi Base. With the encouragement of his new partner and with the support of the other Spectres, the now-Captain Kallus had stepped back into a life of missions and espionage, once again travelling to distant worlds and collecting all of their classified secrets. Only this time, he’s doing it all because of what he believes in. He’s doing it for the family that he loves, and the future that he hopes to secure for them. 

As said in the words of his general: “ _We have hope. Hope that things will get better. And they will.”_

“Dee,” Kallus instructs. “Set coordinates for Echo Base. And open a private transmission to Captain Orrelios, if you please.” On most ships, he’d be able to enter such directions into the nav-computer all by himself; however, the _Glimmer_ isn’t most ships. It’s a salvage--not unlike _himself_ \--rescued from the grasp of the Empire, repaired carefully with spare parts. It’s a miracle that the old ship can even fly: it would be far too much to ask for all of its former systems to start working again.

Besides. It keeps Dee’s busy mind occupied while they are in transit. 

“Opening transmission,” the protocol droid agrees. “And setting course for Echo Base on Hoth. Oh, uh: I’m afraid to inform you that our return shall take a longer time than our flight here. It appears that my navigation systems are informing me that it will be at least ten more hours and one, final jump into hyperspace before arrival, Captain.” 

Kallus waves a hand. “Fine, fine,” he says, face stretching into a yawn. “I need to catch up on some rest anyway. It’s worth it to avoid crossing Empire lines.” 

The sleepiness fades as he hears a crackling over the comm. Kallus leans forward eagerly as a fuzzy, blue holo of Garazeb Orrelios unfolds into view. Painted by shimmering, blue-light pixels from the waist up, the other rebellion captain looks tired, but well. Well, because he is seeing his partner again; _tired,_ because of the bundle of blankets that he holds to his chest. 

“G’mornin,” Zeb rumbles. He blinks at Kallus, beard tangled and bleary-eyed. “Or, g’night, whichever it is where ya are.” 

Kallus chuckles. He places both hands on either side of the display and leans longingly towards his partner and daughter, as if his gesture could cross the distance of space between them. “It’s rather late in the evening where I am,” he admits, smiling softly at the pair of them. “I’ve just finished up on the Z-LOQ mission. We were right, Zeb: they’ve created a powerful long-distance weapon. That thing over Geonosis: it’s _definitely_ not a moon.” 

He watches his partner’s face wrinkle into a frown, and he dreams of being home, smoothing those creases out beneath his fingertips. “But we will figure out a way to stop them. We always have, and we always will.” 

Zeb makes a soft sound of agreement, and the youngling stirs within her blankets.

Kallus watches with wonder as the violet kit wriggles to peek out her head, chirping and blinking those emerald eyes. They hadn’t ever intended to be parents: after following up on some strange information, Kallus had found her among other slaves on a refugee ship. Placing the infant with Garazeb had been the most natural choice; after all, to those who know nothing of Lira San, there are very few remaining Lasat left in the galaxy to raise a kit. 

_And so, the Child saves the Warriors once again._

“She looks _so much_ like you,” Kallus says, smiling at his partner in blissful happiness. He watches with exhausted delight as Zeb tickles the waking kit upon her soft belly, making her purple, clawed feet kick and swing. “I know that you’re not related by blood, but the pair of you could be actual kin.”

The Lasat kit burbles in pleasure, and Garazeb gives her a kiss of affection.

“Well, ya never know,” the other man says, brushing the striped, fuzzy fur from her brow. “There coulda been other survivors from Lasan. Maybe, we’re long lost cousins or somethin’.” He chuckles, and Kallus watches the kit’s claws closing around one of his thick fingers. She suckles, chewing and gumming upon the familiar paw-pads. 

Kallus blinks, thoughtful. It had occurred to him before, but now that Zeb mentioned it...

“What if...our next mission was to _Lasan?”_

Zeb looks up, eyes open in surprise. Kallus raises his hands, gesturing in a gentling and reassuring manner. He knows that even bringing up the topic is disturbing to the both of them; but, somehow, shielded by the tiny kit’s presence, it all feels muted to him somehow. Kallus inhales, then exhales, surprised at his confidence. 

“...What? Are ya sure…?” 

“Zeb, listen. For all that we know, she actually _is_ a blood family member.” Kallus sweeps a hand through his hair, feeling his excitement rising. “Okay, bear with me, but I’m having this crazy idea. What if...I was able to talk to someone who had access to all kinds of... _unusual_ information? If they were different and rare, some kind of species that works in ancient cybernetics, and who could be able to make some connections to network all of the Lasan survivors?” 

Zeb stares at him. He is listening carefully; and, behind those green eyes, something new and passionate shimmers. 

“When I get back to base, I have to tell you about this person I met. Sister Coleema, she’s…” Kalus trails off, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know where her specialty lies, but she reminds me of a Jedi. If, perhaps, we would be able to provide her with something that she wants, maybe she would accompany us back to the planet. It’s wild, and it’s _crazy,_ but I just have this feeling that…” he chews on one lip, feeling his heart race. “...I have this feeling that the Ashla is looking out for us. Drawing us all together. For _her.”_

He gestures down at the child in Zeb’s hands. 

Captain Garazeb Orrelios is teary-eyed. He maneuvers the youngling so that he can wipe at the mist that has formed around those virident globes. At this point in his life, Kallus knows the other man well: and he can tell that Zeb is feeling it, too. _Hope._ And it thrums through his fingertips, making the possibility feel real and alive. 

“S’a neat idea,” Zeb says, returning his gaze back to Kallus. “But what does that change? She’ll still be our daughter. None of that really matters.” 

Kallus smiles, reaching for the Lasat. He wishes that he was there to hold him--but, _soon._ Only eleven more hours until they return. “ You’re right,” he agrees, softly touching the shimmering holo as though to make contact. “But I think that it would be the right thing to try. I think that it would be...I don’t know... _healing._ For all three of us, in our new little family.” He smiles down at the youngling, who appears to have noticed him. “If there is even the smallest possibility that we can reunite you with someone you love, Garazeb, I promise you: I will stop at _nothing_ until we find them.” 

Zeb’s hand reaches back. He splays open his fingers, resting ghostly against Kallus’ hand. 

“ _You_ are someone I love,” he replies. “And we found each other. That might just be enough.”

But Kallus can see the truth of his words forming behind the other man’s eyes. He can feel the excitement within his own chest; picture the happiness expressed by their daughter. Even though they’d just left Sister Coleema behind, Kallus has a _very_ strong feeling that the Ashla will bring them together again. And, when it does, that all things shall be well. 

“Then i’ll see you soon, my love,” he says to Zeb. "Rest for me, please." 

On the other side of the transmission, the Lasat laughs. “Yeah, no, _you_ get some rest. I’ve been alone with this little Loth-rat for the past few days. Once ya get home, _you’re_ gonna be the one chasing after her at all hours.” Zeb grins, a tooth popping out from his lower lip. “That is, once I’m done with ya. Eleven hours, you say? Better make good use of it.” 

Kallus grins, blushing all over again as he closes down the connection. 

He has high hopes about how this will end. 

* * *

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you have time, please leave comments and/or kudos. Knowing that ya'll are enjoying the story is my motivation to keep it going.


End file.
